


Snapshot

by CoffeeFairy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, I guess you can say it's...ineffable, In a way, M/M, Short & Sweet, a.z. fell bookshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 09:26:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeFairy/pseuds/CoffeeFairy
Summary: A day in A.Z. Fell's bookshop, a year after the events leading to the Apocawasn't.Or, the fluffy feels I want to give myself to soothe the abstinence after finishing the show.





	Snapshot

A snapshot of the A.Z. Fell & Co Bookshop, 365 Days Since The Apocawasn't:

Afternoon sunlight slants into the room through dusty window panes. It highlights the dust motes dancing in the air before spilling over books, books and more books. The shelves are crammed, the old fashioned table displays are covered. Footstools, chairs, writing desks, every piece of furniture has books on it. Some are piled precariously, some in tidy stacks. It looks like someone has spent hundreds of years reading in this room, picking up and putting down the tomes at whim. It gives the impression of cozy, homey, cluttered chaos. 

Deeper into the store, there is a small desk. Antique, with several small drawers and a comfortable chair in front. The polished wood shows the deep glow and patina of a piece of well loved furniture. On the desk more books are collected, as well as several heavy ledgers of accounts. In a crystal bowl on the top shelf containing bits and pieces, rests a key, the keyring of which is a stylized “B”. The metal is worn smooth from travelling for close to a century in a pocket. Looking out the window above the desk, you can easily spot the door which the key opens, the sleek 1929 Bentley glinting in the sun like onyx.

Behind the desk a small drinks trolley is crammed in. It once stood in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s sitting room, supplying the mixers to make sidecars and gin martinis. Now it has a collection of books at one end, some early Victorian tumblers and a two-thirds full bottle of Talisker 10 on it. The ice bucket holds a set of ebony and ivory chess pieces. The board is leaning against the shelf behind the cart, ready to be taken out and placed for a game. On the bottom shelf are a collection of old maps, rolled up and several dusty bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape

The gramophone is old enough to have a custom made stand, a large gilt pavilion spreading the sound with an endearing crackle. A record is spinning slowly, having come to an end but it’s easy to read the letters in the centre, revolving gently. Q-U-E-E-N. The record’s cover is piled with its neighbours on the shelf underneath. The most recently played ones have yet to be placed back tidily and _Into the Woods_ , _A Night at the Opera_ , _The Best Of Righteous Brothers_ and _My Generation_ lie awaiting to be played again. 

Around a low coffee table, two armchairs and a couch are grouped. They’re faded red velvet and wonderfully well broken in, moulded just right to a human body. The sofa has a worn patch on one of the armrests where someone has been prone to rest. A black jacket, the back of the collar a much brighter red than the couch, is tossed over the sofa’s back. It looks like the owner has dropped it, distracted by other things, to carelessly leave it where it has fallen. 

Under one of the armchairs sit a pair of extremely worn tweed slippers. They’re the kind of worn that speaks of love, enduring and true. They sit, sagged, waiting patiently for the next time they’ll be put on, providing comfort like a hug, the touch of a hand, a complicit smile. It is warmth and it is welcome to slip one’s feet into slippers like those. 

On the coffee table itself sits a dainty tea set, two empty cups balanced on a silver tray. An open biscuit tin echoes the tartan pattern of the slippers. Next to the tray lie a pair of sunglasses, one of the temples bent. Someone has sat on them. 

In the very back of the shop is an old, sturdy staircase. The newel post has a light blue scrap of fabric hanging around it. On closer inspection, it’s a bow tie, undone to hang forgotten for the moment over the age-darkened wood. At the top of the stairs is the door leading to the apartment above the shop. The door itself has a brass sign spelling “A.Z. Fell and Co.” Someone has taped over the Co, scrawled with marker on top, to instead spell:

“A.Z. Fell & _Crowley_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> You know you're deep in the throes of a new ship when you get misty thinking about car keys left on a desk but I couldn't help myself...I'm new to the fandom (like seven days old) but I really wanted to make the magic last a bit longer by getting into the fanfic! I hope you enjoyed even though it's just a tiny collection of thoughts that make me smile :)


End file.
